It is all those bad dreams, she told herself. I cannot understand what they mean, and now Elayne and I are having them, too, and I do not know what that means either, and Sandar won’t say anything except that he is still looking, and I am so frustrated I . . . I could just spit! She jerked her braid so hard it hurt. At least she had been able to convince Egwene not to use the ter’angreal again, to put the thing back in her pouch instead of wearing it next to her skin always. If the Black Ajah was in Tel’aran’rhiod. . . . She did not want to think about that possibility. We will find them!

“I will bring them down,” she muttered. “Trying to sell me like a sheep! Hunting me like an animal! I am the hunter this time, not the rabbit! That Moiraine! If she had never come to Emond’s Field, I could have taught Egwene enough. And Rand. . . . I could have . . . I could have done something.” That she knew neither was true did not help; it made it worse. She hated Moiraine almost as much as she hated Liandrin and the Black Ajah, maybe as much as she hated the Seanchan.

She rounded a corner, and Juilin Sandar had to leap out of her way to keep from being trampled. Even used to them as he was, he nearly tripped over his own clogs, only his staff saving him from falling on his face in the mud. That pale, ridged wood was called bamboo, she had learned, and it was stronger than it looked.

“Mistress—uh—Mistress Maryim,” Sandar said, regaining his balance. “I was . . . looking for you.” He flashed her a nervous smile. “Are you angry? Why are you frowning at me that way?”

She smoothed her forehead. “I was not frowning at you, Master Sandar. The butcher. . . . It does not matter. Why are you looking for me?” Her breath caught. “Have you found them?”

He looked around as if he suspected the passersby of trying to listen. “Yes. Yes, you must come back with me. The others are waiting. The others. And Mother Guenna.”

“Why are you so nervous? You did not let them discover your interest?” she said sharply. “What has frightened you?”

“No! No, mistress. I—I did not reveal myself.” His eyes darted again, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a breathy, urgent whisper. “These women you seek, they are in the Stone! Guests of a High Lord! The High Lord Samon! Why did you call them thieves? The High Lord Samon!” he almost squeaked. There was sweat on his face.